


Wise Men Bearing Gifts

by Tibby



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/pseuds/Tibby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are only a few weeks left until Christmas so Sherlock decides to buy John a present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wise Men Bearing Gifts

“What are you doing for Christmas, Sherlock?”

It was late into a Sunday at the beginning of December. The occupants of 221B were staying in for the evening.

“I’m a little busy right now.”

John looked up from his laptop and saw that Sherlock was lying on the sofa, just as he had been for the last hour. He was gazing absently at the ceiling.

“All right; it didn’t matter anyway…”

John went back to checking his e-mails and Sherlock picked up his phone. After a few minutes of scrolling through old texts, Sherlock said, casually, “What did you ask me? Something about Christmas?” 

John looked up again and repeated the question, “What are you doing for Christmas, Sherlock?”

“You’re going to tell Harry you can’t make it?”

John nodded. “I just don’t know if I’m ready for…” He stopped talking abruptly, “Wait, how did you-?”

Sherlock leant his head back over the arm of the sofa to get a good upside-down view of John’s face.

“You’re checking your e-mails and suddenly it seems like a good time to see what my plans are. Why would you do that if you weren’t trying to turn someone’s invitation down?”

“Why Harry though?” asked John.

“I can tell when you’ve heard from her, John. You act the same way every time. Besides, who else would it be? You told me last week that your parents were going away for the winter. ”

“It could have been Sarah.”

“Firstly, you wouldn’t turn her down so quickly. Secondly, she wouldn’t ask. You’re not far enough into the relationship to come before family. She’ll take you out for a drink on Christmas Eve instead.”

“Right,” said John, putting a hand to his brow, “Thanks.”

“I’m spending Christmas day at Mother’s.”

“What?”

“You asked what I would be doing for Christmas and now I’m telling you that I’ll be at my mother’s house. She won’t mind having an extra guest.”

“Me? No, I couldn’t do that. I’d be in the way. I can’t just crash your family Christmas,” John protested.

Sherlock smiled.

“Of course you can.”

Somehow, that made it final.

 

Sherlock liked the idea of spending Christmas with John. True, he spent most days with John - most evenings at the very least. He only saw his mother a few times a year. It wasn’t that he really resented spending time with Mother and Mycroft either. They were cloying, but they were still his loving, strangely loveable family. They just weren’t John. Sherlock could happily spend every day with John. In that way, John was unlike other people in general, never mind the Holmes family.

Sherlock was letting all this wander through his mind as he scraped idly on his violin. It then occurred to him that, at Christmas, people often buy presents for their friends.

He would have to buy John a Christmas present. John would like that. It was the kind of _good_ and _normal_ thing that John appreciated.

 

Sherlock decided quite early on that buying gifts wasn’t something he felt comfortable doing. He knew that he would have to find someone to help, and he thought the best someone for the job would be Mycroft. Of course, Sherlock had no desire to make his brother happy by asking for his assistance. He relied entirely on Mycroft volunteering when he next called.

 

“Good afternoon, Sherlock,” Mycroft smiled, as Sherlock opened the door for him.

Sherlock was in one of his depressive states, sleep-starved but glutted on inactivity. He’d taken the time to shower that morning but he was still in his pyjamas, wrapped with a blue dressing gown that stank suspiciously of nicotine.

Mycroft’s nose wrinkled. He frowned for a moment before he had time to properly assess the situation. Business card on the mantelpiece, a saucer on the table but no trace of cigarette stubs - Sherlock had seen a potential client earlier in the morning. Mycroft turned jovial again. He glanced around the room as Sherlock led him to sit down.

“Where’s your little pet?”

“He’s at work,” said Sherlock.

“Ah.”

After seven minutes of sitting in silence, Mycroft observed, “There’s been nothing to interest you lately.”

Sherlock responded with a random pluck of a violin string and a dark look. Mycroft continued.

“I might have something to occupy that great mind of yours. There’s a civil servant in the Department of Social Affair and Citizenship…”

“There is one thing on my mind, actually,” Sherlock quickly interjected, “It’s not a case or a problem but I do need to get it done. I was about to go out when you came.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock’s clothes a meaningful look.

“I meant after getting dressed, obviously,“ Sherlock said with a scowl. Seeing Mycroft raise his eyebrows he added, “I have to buy John something for Christmas so I hope you’re not going to keep me here long.”

“You’re going Christmas shopping?”

“You sound surprised,” Sherlock said, “Why do you sound surprised? I do know how to buy things from shops, Mycroft. I’m not entirely useless.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“Was there anything else you wanted?”

Mycroft shook his head, “No, not particularly.”

Sherlock got up and went to his bedroom to dress.

“I’ll come along and help you, shall I?” called Mycroft, from his chair in the sitting room.

“Fine!”

 

Sherlock was quite sure that he hadn’t set foot in Harrods since he was a child being dragged around by his mother. Being an adult, dragged around by his older brother, wasn’t much of an improvement as far as he was concerned.

On the first floor, they found Men’s Knitwear. Sherlock and Mycroft stood at the edge of a vast display of cardigans and jumpers. Beyond, the rest of Menswear stretched out towards the horizon. It left Sherlock cold but Mycroft seemed to be enjoying himself.

“What size do you think John is?” Sherlock asked, rifling through a line of cable knits.

Mycroft put a hand, flat, to the height of his chest.

Sherlock smiled, despite himself, “Very funny. Medium? Do you think he’s a medium?”

“I’d say so. Yes, that sounds about right.”

“This one then,” said Sherlock, taking a jumper from the rail.

Mycroft looked appalled.

“You can’t just buy him the first thing you see!”

“Why not? It’s a jumper, it’s his size. He wears jumpers. Isn’t that a good gift?”

“You have to think about whether it will suit him - whether it matches his tastes.”

Sherlock looked long and hard at the jumper. It looked like a jumper. He couldn’t see much of interest beyond that.

“Let me have a look,” sighed Mycroft.

He took to a rail of cream-coloured cardigans, examining each carefully.

Sherlock stood back and watched Mycroft work. Every so often Mycroft would stop to show Sherlock an item and Sherlock soon learnt that he was required either to shake his head or to nod. After a while he almost started to take an interest.

It took some time but they finally settled on a wonderfully soft cashmere jumper.

 

Sherlock handed a credit card to the sales assistant at the till.

“This,” he remarked to Mycroft, “Is the first Christmas present I’ve bought for anyone.”

Mycroft smiled wryly, “Technically, you’ve still never bought for anyone. I want my credit card back once you’ve paid for this, you know.”

The sales assistant handed the card back to Sherlock, who irritably handed it over to Mycroft.

“And don’t tell Mummy that story, will you?” Mycroft continued, “As far as she’s concerned, you’ve bought her something every year since you were twelve, you just ask me to give it to her with my gifts.”

“Really? I wondered why she’s always more patient with me on Christmas Day.”

The two wandered away from the desk. Mycroft was veering towards the exit when Sherlock said, “Not yet. I’d like to look at something else.”

Sherlock led the way, back through the rows and rows of clothes to Men’s Accessories. He spent a while peering thoughtfully at ties and cufflinks until, eventually, he picked up a pair of gloves. He took them back to Mycroft.

“Do you like these?” he asked, holding out the brown leather gloves.

“They’re very nice. Who are they for?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but he went over to the till and paid for them. When he came back, he handed a bag to Mycroft. Mycroft silently took the wrapped and bagged gloves and grinned down at them.

“A ‘thank you’ would be nice,” said Sherlock.

“Thank you, brother,” Mycroft beamed.

“Happy Christmas, Mycroft.”

 

At 6pm on Christmas Eve, Sarah came into John’s surgery and asked him if he fancied going out for a drink. It was just as Sherlock had said it would be. John did his utmost to put the thought of Sherlock’s prediction from his mind and told Sarah that, yes, he’d love to. He was tired and he thought he had a cold coming on, but surely no one could turn down a drink with Sarah Sawyer on a beautiful Christmas Eve in London. He was half-way to asking her to go ice-skating with him, when she threw him his coat and told him that she thought they’d go to the bar across the road.

 

“Just a quiet Christmas for you then?” Sarah asked, sometime later on.

“Hmm, not really. Sherlock’s family have invited me to have dinner with them.”

“Oh,” said Sarah, “What about your Mum and Dad?”

“They’re on a Mediterranean cruise until January.”

“And Harry?”

John put down his drink and stared at it for a few moments, trying to think of an answer that wouldn’t make Sarah think he was completely heartless. He was embarrassed and uncomfortable in recollecting the short, cold answer he had eventually sent his sister. Sarah picked up on his discomfort and hurried to rescue him.

“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling sympathetically, “I know it’s complicated.”

“Maybe next year.”

Sarah tipped her head to one side and smiled more cheerily.

“Maybe next year you’ll have made plans with someone else,“ she said. Then she lowered her voice and added, before John had a chance to respond, “Or perhaps Sherlock would like to go to Harry’s with you.”

Sarah laughed.

“If you’re going to be like that, maybe I’ll go home to Sherlock,” John told her, pretending to be cross.

 

John didn’t go home. He and Sarah stayed out late, talking about how they were going to be useless the following morning (which was, in actuality, already upon them). Eventually, John walked Sarah the rather long way home and they said goodnight. She kissed him on the cheek. He kissed her on the mouth, feeling far too tired and drunk for anything but a clumsy press of lips against lips. Then he went home. To bed, where he fell asleep immediately.

 

The next morning, John woke up far earlier than he’d have liked to. Something had disturbed his sleep, some movement at the end of his bed. He blearily struggled to open his protesting eyes. When he at last managed to focus, he found a tall, dark figure sitting in the space between his knees and his feet.

“’Morning, Sherlock,” he coughed, miserably.

“You don’t look well,” Sherlock said, peering at John’s face with concern, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” John said. As he heaved himself to an upright position, he caught sight of a parcel resting on Sherlock’s lap, “What’s that?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Happy Christmas,” Sherlock said, handing it to John.

John hardly knew what was happening but he took the parcel with a grunt of thanks and tore open the wrapping paper. Out fell the cashmere jumper.

“Is this for me?”

“Of course, it’s for you,” said Sherlock, “I wasn’t asking you to unwrap it for someone else.”

John held the jumper up. There was a Ralph Lauren label hanging from the neck.

“Sherlock, this must have cost you a fortune.”

“I’m not sure,” said Sherlock, “It might have done.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

Sherlock smiled, knowing that, yes, he should have - John seemed to be in a mild form of shock but he was clearly pleased.

After a while, John started to look sheepish. He reluctantly put down the jumper and twisted himself so he could reach under the bed. When he emerged again, he had a striped gift bag. He passed it to Sherlock.

“I feel a bit bad now,” John murmured, his eyes fixed firmly on his own knuckles, “I didn’t know you were going to put so much effort into buying me a present.”

Sherlock looked at John, then he looked in the bag. There was a blue scarf, almost identical to the one he already owned, that John had picked up at Tie Rack. There was also a spiral-bound desk calendar.

Sherlock gazed at the objects intently, carefully examining them for any hidden practical or aesthetic worth. He put the scarf around his neck. He turned the calendar over in his hands once or twice, taking it in from all angles.

“These are terrible gifts,” he said at last.

“Yeah, I know,” said John, apologetically.

Sherlock grinned. John hadn’t seen him so pleased with anything since their last serial murder.

 

Sherlock soon ordered John out of bed. Mycroft, it seemed, was coming to pick them up at nine o’clock.

“Where exactly does your Mum live?” asked John.

“It’s in Sussex - somewhere between Brighton and the middle of nowhere.”

 

Mycroft drove into Baker Street precisely on time. He was forced to wait in the hired car for ten minutes while John showered and Sherlock checked the Petri dishes he’d been keeping in the fridge. Eventually he saw their front door open. John came up to the driver’s window to apologise for keeping him waiting. Mycroft took the steering wheel in his gloved hands. He told John not to worry and that he was glad John was joining them. Sherlock then dragged John off, bundled him into the back seat and took the passenger seat for himself.

John didn’t mind being relegated to the back at all. There were carols on the radio. In the front seats, Mycroft and Sherlock were bickering over anything they could think of. It all reminded John of winter trips to his grandparents in his childhood, and that wasn’t a bad comparison in the least. He was hard pressed to think of a feeling more comfortable and secure than being a backseat passenger. He hadn’t had the chance to be one in a long time, probably not since he was a child on one of those journeys.

He dozed then, the clear, cold view of the city fading in and out. By the time the grey buildings had changed to green-white fields and icy canals, he was back to sleep.


End file.
